Killing Time
by skittlefizzzx
Summary: When you're stuck in the agonizing redundancy of day-to-day banalities, therapy can be a welcome reprieve. But when you're trapped in a post-apocalyptic hellhole, therapy is mandatory by law. Or at least, by the military. And when you're Herbert Keane, a man with a knack for being awkward, and many secrets to hide, therapy is going to be a hellride.
1. Session 1

It all began on a Saturday night.

Of course, it had to be that Saturday right before Christmas. Of course, it had to be _that_ Saturday, a.k.a. the day after a series of sleepless months and an extremely stressful Friday morning preparing my post-graduate dissertation to present to a very apathetic Board of Medical Directors.

Honestly, what shitty timing.

To be even more honest, I'm not surprised; my entire life has revolved around bad timing and being generally awkward.

Hi, by the way.

Anyway, you know that special, once in a lifetime, never-happens-in-reality moment when you walk into a bar and catch a girl's eye, and behind those fluttering eyelashes is the subliminal messaging of a master flirt and the guarantee you're in for a completely unrestrained, unbelievably wild night?

Well, you would think that after months of zero social contact, studying myself sick to get myself into medical school, this guy's landed the ultimate dream, right? I was nineteen, my brain was killing me, and I really, REALLY needed to get laid…

Then of course I have to go and get fucking food poisoning. What the FUCK.

Hmm…I just realized that I don't actually know you, yet you already know about my messed up adolescent sex life. Awk-ward.

I suppose I should take a break and formally introduce myself. My name is Herbert Keane, and I just completed my medical degree at Oxford. Yeah. Eight years of not having a life, living exclusively off of cup ramen and instant mac and cheese, only to discover I'm actually allergic to gluten…I don't think I need to elaborate just how much that sucked. Let's see, what else. I'm the youngest of two, and unfortunately my sister is _way_ more badass than me. I'll be twenty four in January, uh, my hobbies are nonexistent, given that I've sacrificed the past eighteen years of life to overachieve in school and become a doctor—haha, oh wait, that's not a joke.

Um…I'm NOT a virgin anymore, thank god… Was that too much info?

What are my fears? Well, they used to be along the lines of losing a rugby match to my sister at the annual family reunion, but now it's become the standard "Please-don't-let-me-be-eaten-alive-by-a-ravenous- horde-of-zombies."

I bet everyone says that. God, I'm boring.

My dreams? See "fears."

Sooooo...is post-apocalyptic therapy even a thing? Not to discredit you or anything, but I'm dubious.

Are you even listening to me anymore?

...

...

...

Thanks, this was totally helpful, and not at all a complete, useless waste of my time. See you next week.

* * *

SUBJECT is twenty three years old. SUBJECT recovered in West London by Lt. Masterson, around 0900 hours on the eleventh of July. SUBJECT seems unwilling to discuss events transpiring before rescue. Unknown if due to trauma or intentional. (Request additional research.) SUBJECT seems to have developed sufficient skills in general medicine, advanced surgery, anesthesia, and pharmaceuticals, according to available transcripts. SUBJECT confirmed _CLEAN_ after first sweep despite lack of gas mask. (Request additional research.)

No termination necessary.

Enlistment, tentative classification of _MEDIC_ confirmed. Will report more as data is obtained.

Regards,

_000_

p.s.| SUBJECT is also **not** a virgin.


	2. Session 2

Well, here I am again.

Not to be a dick or anything, but it's kind of a major drag to be back in here. If it weren't for the armed guards outside the door…

So how are you?

Eh…I can't complain. Actually, I _could_ complain—the food is shit, and you really should talk to someone about sprucing the place up, I mean, sterile aluminum chair, linoleum flooring, and the flickering, old school fluorescent lights? How much more cliché can you get? And the wall-turned-mirror is TOTAL overkill…oh, I bet you're behind that mirror, watching me, aren't you.

Yeah, so I'm a little feisty today. Bite me.

Wait, what? Could you repeat the question?

"…the first time I saw a Clot?" We go from boring pleasantries to asking bizarrely random questions. How the hell am I supposed to know what a clot looks like? DO I LOOK LIKE A HEART SURGEON TO YOU? I'M ORTHOPEDICS, WOMAN! READ MY FUCKING FILE.

Oh, you're talking about those creepy, balding, naked adult-baby-hybrid things? Is that what they're called? Yeah, I remember them. Damn. Making me relive traumatic memories already? You forward little minx…

Sorry. That crossed some lines. Does that constitute as sexual harassment? I mean, for all I know, you're probably a guy. And that isn't exactly how I roll, if you know what I mean. Which you probably don't.

Oh, you did. Whelp, that just made things way more awkward.

You know, it's really hard to understand you with the weird, deep-breathing noises you guys keep making. It's creeping me out…like I'm having a real-life conversation with Darth Vader. Which, actually, when I think of it like that, is pretty cool. But don't you ever take off your gas mask?

No? Damn, that must suck.

Sorry, you're right, I am getting off tangent. Because it's completely rational for me to tell complete strangers everything little detail they want to know on command. Let's see…did you know that when I was seven, my mom accidentally locked me in the car at Water World? Yeah, yeah, field trip, tons of kids to look out for, yadda yadda yadda…but seriously, how do you forget about your own KID?

Fine. But only because you said "please." And only if you put a request in for rations other than cans of soggy, nearly-expired pinto beans. First of all, they're extremely bland. Secondly, I'm farting everywhere, and it's disgusting.

He-hem. So I was just at work, minding my own business, you know? And all of a sudden the sirens go off and I'm thinking, _damn, must be another tornado warning_. But the sky wasn't green. Because obviously you can tell there's a tornado coming if the sky turns green. Next thing I know the new guy beside me that I'm supposed to be training grabs me. And his hands are bloody. Like…_covered_ in blood. For a sec I thought he must have cut himself on the equipment. But then I looked at his face.

The bastard clawed his own eyes out!

…

Jesus, it gives me shivers just thinking about it. Anyway, I tried to step back, but he was just clamped onto me. And then it got freaky…he threw his head back, mouth gaping, like a rabies victim or something, and his head started jerking back and forth. I mean, I would've been worried for the guy, if…

Well, his hand fucking hurt. And I couldn't get him off me! Anyway, these chunks of hair just started falling out of his head, like he was going through accelerated chemo or something, and something about him just looked…hungry. My warning bells were going off like crazy. Maybe I've just read _World War Z_ too many times, but that's when I just threw reason to the wind, grabbed a scalpel and sawed his fingers off me, and booked it back to my apartment.

Did you ask where this took place? Oh, uh…just nearby. At the hospital. Yeah. Thus the scalpel.

You know what? I'm really tired, and kind of traumatized for the day, so can we just be done here? Thanks.

Oh, don't forget about the no-more pinto beans thing. Seriously.

* * *

SUBJECT present during the first waves of infection. SUBJECT witness to firsthand accounts of transformation, although causes of mutation still unknown. (Request additional research.) SUBJECT claims to be employed at hospital, although no such employment records exist. (Further inquiry required.) SUBJECT was fidgeting and clearly uncomfortable discussing primary encounter with species::_CLOT_. SUBJECT avoided eye contact and stared at ceiling for majority of session.

Possible detection of SUBJECT dishonesty; details pending.

Releasing SUBJECT to _MEDIC_ training acceptable but only under **direct supervision****_._**Increase therapy sessions to twice weekly.

Regards,

_000_


End file.
